Chapter 20
Hannah
The next morning, I wake at four-thirty, my eyes snapping open in the morning light.
My body is getting used to waking up early, but deep down, it’s because I’m too scared to go back to sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of what today will bring—him in my space, those assessing eyes taking in every detail of my life. I want to be ready when he gets here.
I watch TV until the door knock comes at six, but it’s the nurse who enters, her scrubs swishing softly as she enters the room.
“Is Dr. Sterling here?”
She must read something on my face because her next words have me feeling excitement to get out of here and head home to freshen up, but also nervous about going with him and what today will bring.
“He’s here reviewing your charts and completing your discharge paperwork.”
There’s a sparkle in her eye that I’m not sure about… a hint of amusement that makes me jittery.
I’m not interested in him. This wasn’t my choice. But instead of saying it, I just pretend not to care, keeping my expression neutral, because if I say too much, that would say the opposite, wouldn’t it?
Sexy Sterling is… something nice to look at, nothing more. He’s too broody and bossy. I don’t think that guy knows how to have fun. Well, how can you when you don’t talk much? I repeat this to myself, trying to make it stick.
She takes my blood pressure and other vitals, the cuff squeezing tight around my bicep before releasing.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, not wanting anything to stop me from getting out of here and back to set tomorrow.
“Yes. Perfect.” She unwraps the cuff.
I exhale. “Good.”
“It was lovely to meet you.” She bites her lower lip, hesitating. “You look stunning.”
“Thanks. I’d kill to change into scrubs, though. I’ve been wearing these clothes since yesterday.”
“Do you want some?” she offers immediately, her eyes brightening.
“I’d love some.”
She’s back in only a few minutes, slightly breathless. She hands me a neatly folded set of navy scrubs. “There you go.”
“Thank you. I’ll get them dropped off later.”
“No need. Keep them.”
“Thank you…” I trail off, wanting to know her name.
“Cyrall.”
“Thank you, Cyrall.”
She blushes and wanders out with a small wave over her shoulder.
I take off my top, pulling it up over my head.
I’m in the middle of wrestling it off when there is another knock.
The fabric is stuck around my neck, my arms tangled above me.
I pause, frozen. I can’t remove it because I’ll just be in a bra, so I try to tug it down, my heart racing as the door opens.
“Are you rea—” Sterling starts to ask, cutting off abruptly.
He clears his throat, the sound rough and masculine in the quiet room. Color rushes to my cheeks. I don’t want him to know I’m embarrassed or stuck, so I keep pulling the shirt down with jerky movements, fighting with the twisted fabric. When he comes into view, the air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Once again, he’s not in uniform. His broad shoulders fill out a black Henley that clings to his chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry, and he’s wearing blue jeans that sit perfectly on his hips. Casual Dr. Sterling is sexy… Brooke’s words come to me and make me smile unwittingly.
“What are you smiling at?” His eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my heart turn over in response.
“You have impeccable timing.” I finally yank the shirt down, smoothing it over my stomach with trembling hands.
“I’d say the worst…” he mumbles, but I catch it, and my heart drops. The warmth I felt moments ago evaporates.
Right. Because seeing me half-dressed is the worst thing that could happen to him.
“Turn around so I can change.” My tone is a mix of hurt and embarrassment.
He stares for a moment, the muscle in his jaw pulsing as if he wants to say something, but then he turns so he faces the door, his shoulders rigid. “Should I go?”
I have to get used to him. This is day one of however many days this arrangement lasts. Ripping off the top, I let it fall to the floor. “No, you can help me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He sounds strained.
I put the scrub top on quickly, the fabric cool against my heated skin. “I’m not asking you to help me dress, but I need to go to the bathroom to change into the pants.”
He stays silent, and I see the tension in his back, the way his hands flex at his sides.
“I’m dressed. You can turn now.”
He turns slowly, almost reluctantly, and his eyes drop to the scrub top I’m wearing. His gaze darkens.
“Who gave you that?”
“Cyrall. Why?” I look down at myself, confused by his reaction.
“Nothing.” But his tone suggests it’s definitely something.
“I didn’t want to go outside in the same gross clothes as yesterday. She offered.” I feel defensive, like I need to explain myself.
“It’s fine.” But the muscle in his jaw tics again and it doesn’t seem “fine” at all.
The room feels weird, charged with a tension I don’t understand, and I just want to be at home where I feel comfortable. “Can you come and help me?”
Snapping out of whatever thought he was lost in, he steps closer. He hands me the crutches, and I wince as they dig into the sensitive spots under my arms. I thought it would be better by now, but it’s not. If anything, the bruising feels worse.
“Can you grab my pants?” I ask as soon as I’m positioned at the bathroom doorway, balancing on the crutches.
He does so without a word and brings back the pants.
Our eyes hold as he hands them over, and I assume he’s about to offer to help when his hand reaches out slightly, his lips parting to speak, but he looks conflicted, caught between professional duty and something else.
I just have to put him out of his misery.
“I’ve got it now. Can you wait outside? I’ll call out when I’m done.”
“Are you sure? I can call Cyrall back?”
“No, I’m good. I’ll just be a minute. I’ll let you know when I need you to open the door.”
He huffs out of frustration or resignation, I’m not sure which, but he leaves, closing the door behind him.
I stand for a second, just soaking in the air that’s full of his wicked aftershave. It gives me goosebumps. Surely, spending every day together, I’ll be immune to it soon… I can’t have this response to him or his scent for the whole time, can I?
I sit on the toilet and then change, taking my time, because there’s no way I’ll risk another accident. I can already imagine the look on his face, that mixture of exasperation and concern that seems to be his default expression around me.
Once I’m changed, I call out, “Done.” The door swings open immediately. I laugh, the sound bursting out before I can stop it.
“What?” He frowns, those dark eyebrows drawing together.
“Were you just standing at the door?” I grin up at him, oddly charmed by the image of him hovering protectively outside.
“Yeah. Why?” he asks, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“This is going to be a long four weeks.” But even as I say it, warmth spreads through my chest.
“Tell me about it.” His tone is dry, but there’s something in his eyes… a flicker of amusement, maybe…that softens the words.
I head back to the bed, hobbling on the crutches, and he shadows my movements like he’s ready to catch me if I stumble.
“So, what do I have to do to get out of here?”
“Sign papers, and then I’ll call the orderly.” He opens my door, holding some paperwork.
“What do we need an orderly for?” I ask as I shift to the edge of the bed.
“A wheelchair to my car. It’s in the staff lot, and I don’t want to be wheeling the chair back here.”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
He walks over to me and hands me a pen, his fingers brushing mine briefly. “Sign here.”
I scribble my signature.
“Not fancy for a celebrity.” His observation is casual, almost absentminded, but it stings.
“Wow, your compliments are strong today.” I don’t look up, focusing on the signature that definitely looks more like chicken scratch than anything elegant.
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…” He shakes his head, seeming frustrated with himself. “I’m going to go call…” He leaves before finishing the sentence, and I’m left sitting there feeling oddly deflated. I take a photo of my signature and text Brooke.
Me: Sexy Sterling said my handwriting isn’t fancy for a celebrity.
Brooke: It’s messy, I agree, but who’s he to talk? I bet his is messy too.
I look at the papers he left behind and see his signature at the bottom. It’s neat. Of course it is. I take a photo and send it to her with a follow-up text.
Me: Nope, it’s neat just like him.
Brooke: Yeah, for a doctor, I’m impressed.
Me: I gotta go, he’s about to take me home. Wish me luck.
Brooke: Don’t forget to update me!
I tuck my phone away in my purse and wait. And wait. Where the hell did he go? The minutes drag by, each one stretching longer than the last. I start to wonder if he’s changed his mind, if he’s found a way out of this arrangement.
Ten minutes later, a knock jolts me from my thoughts, and it’s definitely not him. Too soft.
I see the wheelchair first, then a guy in his thirties behind it. His eyes widen at the sight of me, recognition dawning across his face. Yes, it’s me. I smile, my practiced public smile sliding into place. At least someone is excited to see me.
He wheels the chair close to the bed, his movements eager. “Hi, miss. I’ll give you a hand.”
“I’ve got it,” Sterling’s voice booms behind the orderly.
The orderly suddenly steps back, startled, and I slip a little, my balance wavering. The bed catches me from behind, but my heart hammers.
Sterling teases, “Do you know how to stay on your two feet?”
“I was fine until you scared the shit out of me.”
The orderly keeps silent, his eyes fixed on the chair, his whole body rigid.
He steps behind the handles as Sterling touches my arm, his fingers wrapping easily around my bicep.
They’re firm, almost possessive, as he helps me get into the chair with surprising gentleness despite his gruff demeanor.
The contrast makes my head spin. Once I’m settled, he hands me my purse.